I hate my brothers
by Crimson Cupcake
Summary: My name is Morifinwe Carnistir. My father decided it would be a good idea to leave me alone with each of my brothers for a day. My father is not good at coming up with good ideas.


_A/N: Experimenting in first-person writing... From the Silmarillion, and I suppose this is set in modern day. _

_Tolkien is awesome. I owneth nothing._**  
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><p><strong>Day one – Maitimo<strong>

It was a bright sunny day on the streets of Tirion, and that was depressing. The sun got in your eyes, blinded you, and made you feel like you were wearing a thousand layers. The birds never stopped chirping, making it hard to hear what your brother was saying. The streets were crowded, and navigation was virtually impossible—all one did was hope for the best, which was to not get separated.

This, unfortunately, is exactly what happened to me.

I was caught out in these dismal conditions because Maitimo—yes, _the_ Maitimo ... no need to swoon, ladies—forced me out here. Apparently father realized that I, unlike his previous sons, did not specialise in a certain field—so clever of him—and as a result, he has invited each of my brothers to show me his tools of the trade in an attempt to entice me to one field.

This is what my schedule looks like:

_Monday – Maitimo – Tirion (this is supposed to be 'what we're doing', but Maitimo left it specifically vague)  
>Tuesday – Makalaurë – Music<br>Wednesday – Tyelkormo – Hunting (And... other things.)_  
><em>Thursday<em> – _Curufinwë_ – _Smithing (No wonder father loves him the most. They're carbon copies)  
>Friday – Ambarussa are too young to teach me anything, thank the Valar.<em>

So it is with great reluctance that I followed Maitimo out of the house on Monday morning. He led me to the busiest street in Tirion: here.

"See them?" Maitimo said, pointing at a group of pretty girls. "Go up to them and say hi. Go on." He gave me a little push.

I stared back at him as if he were crazy, which he was. "What are you talking about?" I asked.

He gave me one of his award-winning smiles which could not fail to charm any girl. There was even an article in the _Tirion Daily_ about it. How did it go again?

_**Prince Charming**_

_Royal, rich, good-looking and absolutely charming to the core, there is no doubt that Nelyafinwë Maitimo, eldest son of the High Prince of Tirion Curufinwë Fëanáro, has already captured the hearts of half the girls in the city. But his most famous and attractive quality is his radiant smile. One smile and you will find yourself professing your love, staring wide-eyed and giving him your heart, house and belongings. You will find yourself entranced by him, brought into a dreamy daze of love, forever captured by that one beautiful smile._

_Note: Keep him away from your girlfriends._

The article goes on and on about first dates, what Maitimo likes for presents, his address, phone number and school. In fact, now that I think about it, it's pretty much stalking him. No wonder there are so many girls outside our house every day.

"So how about it?" Maitimo said again, pulling me back into the present.

"Why can't you do it?" I snapped back. I'm not in the mood for this—all I want to do is go back home, lock myself in my room and blast music as loud as I can. Not that stupid classical shit Makalaurë loves. Loud drums, rock, heavy metal, killer guitars, whatever the hell I'm in the mood for.

But alas that opportunity was long-gone as Maitimo began pushing me towards them. "Try!" he insisted eagerly.

I stepped forward, feeling self-conscious, and strapped on a painful smile. Slowly, I meandered my way towards the girls, then came to a stop near them.

"Hi."

They didn't even glance in my direction. Maitimo was at my shoulder before you could say 'I want to leave', flashing the ladies his signature dazzling smile. "Hello ladies," he said with a bow, allowing his flowing red hair to fall exactly where he wanted it. "May I introduce you to my younger brother?"

The girls giggled with delight, then looked over in my direction. The smiles promptly faded from their faces as they turned back to Maitimo.

"Oh, sorry, Nelyo," one of them said in a ridiculously high-pitched voice. "I thought you were talking about Tyelkormo. Who's this?"

Maitimo beckoned me closer. "This is Morifinwë Carnistir," he said.

At this, the girls giggled louder. "Carnistir?" they repeated, and the whisper spread amongst their group.

"Carnistir?"

"Did you hear that?"

"Red faced!"

Sure enough, my face was slowly turning red. This was too embarrassing. I stepped a fraction closer to Nelyo, then whispered, 'Bye.' Without waiting to see whether he heard me or not, I spun around and disappeared around the corner.

**Day two – Makalaurë**

"Well, what do you think?" asked Makalaurë, seated on his stooland stroking his harp as if it were a pet of some sort. I thought only Tyelkormo did that.

"That was in E minor," my brother continued. "Do you think G major would be better? Perfect or plagal cadence? Legato or staccato? What about the tempo: largo or lento? What did you think about the tierce de Picardie near the end? This is a sonata, but I can sing you a cantata if you'd like."

I stared at him, dumbfounded, ignoring the sheet music he had given me. "Kano, I have no idea what you're talking about."

He looked disappointed, which made me feel bad for a second. Makalaurë always looked so helpless when he was sad.

He sighed. "Alright, let's start from the beginning. What's this?" Makalaurë held up a coloured-in circle with a stick poking out of it.

"Uhh..." I looked down at my sheet of notes and said, "Quaver?"

Makalaurë shook his head. "No, no, crotchet. Do you see, quavers have that extra stem sticking out..."

Once again, I stared blankly at him. "No, I don't see."

He seemed determined to be optimistic. "Alright, what about this note." He played something on his harp, then looked up expectantly. "What note is that?"

"I dunno, L?"

"There's no L note, Moryo..."

"Well M, then!"

"There's no M either..."

"Then what _is_ there?"

The moment I asked that, I knew it was a horrible mistake. A mad light came into Makalaurë's eyes, and he began talking so rapidly I could only understand half of what he was saying—a trait surely inherited from our grandmother. "There's A to G and sharps and flats for each one, but E sharp is the same as F and B sharp is the same as C and likewise C flat would be B and F flat E and there are double-sharps and flats and the double-sharp looks like a cross and—"

"No, Kano," I said firmly, cutting him off. "To be honest, I don't care. I hate playing music, especially classical. I don't even want to play guitar."

Makalaurë looked shocked beyond belief. "The acoustic guitar..." he began.

"No!" I said, throwing my hands up in the air. "Not acoustic, electric. And I don't even want to play _that_. So please, I'm leaving now. Have fun composing the lyrics to your soyinata, or whatever it's called."

**Day three – Tyelkormo**

We were riding through the forest, the sound of the horses dampened by the fallen leaves underneath. It had just rained in the morning, and the clouds were still dark, heavy and foreboding. Ahead of me, Tyelkormo's horse came to a controlled stop without any apparent signal from Tyelkormo's part (curse the bastard's ability to communicate with animals) and he slid off. I followed suit, actually having to pull on the reins before jumping down a lot less fluidly.

"Quiet," Tyelkormo hissed at me, pointing to the trees. There, in the shadows, was a small deer. I wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't pointed it out to me.

"We're going to shoot that?" I asked.

"_YOU'RE TOO LOUD!" _Tyelkormo positively yelled, and the deer went scarpering off into the forest. He frowned at me, as if it were _my_ fault. "See what you did?"

"You did that!" I protested hotly. "It didn't even hear me."

Tyelkormo rolled his eyes and muttered, "Liar," underneath his breath. I pretended I didn't notice.

We mounted our horses again and began galloping, faster than before. The sun was going to set soon, and apparently it was my fault we hadn't caught anything all day. I remember what happened the last three times we stopped to shoot something.

The first time, I couldn't get my bow to work. Tyelkormo had to drop _his_ bow in order to help me, but that had startled the squirrel and it ran off.

The second time, Tyelkormo got his hair caught up. He refused to let me cut it, and spent more than fifteen minutes extracting it, and then another half an hour combing his hair. Why the _hell_ he brings a comb when hunting, I don't know.

The third time was actually my fault. I shot an arrow. I missed. Well surely you don't expect me to hit the ant on my first attempt!

I tore myself back to the present as we rode past a cliff, and I peered at it for a few seconds before signalling Tyelkormo to stop. Between two cliffs was a dark passageway, only narrow enough for a single file. "In there," I said smugly.

Tyelkormo gave me a worried glance. "Are you sure, Moryo?"

"Of _course_, Turko," I said, rolling my eyes. "You first."

He entered, then looked back at me, then kept going. I made the pretence of entering the passage, then reversed back out. I waited... one... two... three... but no one yelled at me. Grinning, I kicked my horse as fast as it could go, and rode back to our house.

**Day four – Curufinwë**

Tyelkormo still isn't back yet, and it's been a day. Oh well, I don't care. If he dies, good for him.

I've already said before that Curufinwë was father's carbon copy. _It's completely true. _Curufinwë would be the only one to torture me so sadistically like this. All day he had me working: in the forge, in the forge, in the forge—wait, I never even stepped out of the forge, not even for lunch.

If you've ever had a younger sibling, you would know that they were really, _really_ annoying. Imagine having a younger sibling who your brilliant aristocratic father favoured. Imagine having a younger brother who was the spitting image of your father. Imagine having both father and son gang up on you.

Now multiply that by a hundred times, and you'll see what I have to go through every minute of every hour of every day.

First the little brat made me make a sculpture of myself. I rather liked it, and showed it to him, until Curufinwë mashed it into the dirt and said that this resembled me more. I had the urge to clobber him right there, but then father showed up. Curufinwë told father that this mashed up piece of trash was what I had created.

Needless to say, father was not pleased.

In fact, he stayed and watched as I had to make sculptures of my brothers, of Huan, of my parents, of my cousins (and you know how many I have), of the girls I met on the street with Nelyo the other day, of Kano's harp, of Turko's horse, of Curvo's forge, of father's forge, of whatever the hell you can think of.

At the end of it all, Curufinwë took my sculptures and delivered each of them to their original likenesses. He even managed to extract Tyelkormo from a rosebush by cutting off most of his hair.

My sculptures were not very well made.

I am writing this in hospital right now.

My younger brother is a sly bastard.


End file.
